the winter it is past

    the winter it is past, and the summer comes at last

    and the small birds, they sing on ev'ry tree;

    now ev'ry thing is glad, while i am very sad,

    since my true love is parted from me.

    the rose upon the breer, by the waters running clear,

    may have charms for the linnet or the bee;

    their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,

    but my true love is parted from me.